


Breathe Out (Sorrow)

by CinnaAtHeart



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Because I can, Darcy is the fandom bicycle and I love it, Everyone Is Poly Because Avengers, F/F, F/M, I may or may not sic a serial killer on Darcy, M/M, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Serial Killers, The Avengers are all Vampires, Vampire Darcy - Freeform, because why not, creature Darcy, in many different kinds of ways, non-human Darcy, sexual abuse but not rape
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-14
Updated: 2015-08-20
Packaged: 2018-03-30 09:07:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 19,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3931096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CinnaAtHeart/pseuds/CinnaAtHeart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Darcy Lewis wakes up changed.<br/>Her senses are heightened; she heals almost instantly and she can run a mile in half a minute without breaking a sweat. And yeah okay, so the whole thirst for blood thing kind of sucks ('yes, haha Bucky, very punny'), but it's definitely an improvement, because Darcy hadn't expected to wake up at all. Vampirism offers a lot of improvements for baseline Darcy, but if she's honest with herself, the best part of weathering the shitstorm she'd ended up in was finding herself a family.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Beginnings

**Author's Note:**

> I am a bad person. The worst. I SHOULD be working on From the Head Down, but here I am sticking a poly vampire AU up here like I don't have better things to do with my time. I do. I totally do. And I don't even care.
> 
> (Title is taken from 'Left Alone' By Flume and Chet Faker)

She wakes up cold. Alone. The ground beneath her back is hard and dry. A rock presses into a shoulder uncomfortably.

She opens her eyes; it’s dark. The stars in the treeless stars are brighter and more plentiful than she’s ever seen them. Distantly she notes her glasses are missing. She wonders if they would be sharper and keener with them on.  They seem quite keen now; she’s not sure if she could bear it, to see them in focus.

Her throat aches- a dry rasp like the symptom of an oncoming cold. She coughs, but the sensation is not dispelled.

“You’re awake then.” A young woman’s husky voice remarks in the darkness.

Darcy turns her head towards the voice. A woman enters her line of vision. Her hair is a violent shade of red, and in the darkness her eyes are so dark they look black. There are splashes of something on her neck and left cheek. _Blood_ , something in her knows. She bets her dark clothes are just as bloody.

She is beautiful.

“Where am I?” She breathes. Her body feels like lead, and there is a throbbing in her bones that promises pain is she moves.

The woman glances behind her, searching for something. A breeze ruffles her hair, catching in her mouth when she turns back to speak, “On a farm. Out near Ithaca.” Her eyes turn sharp, “Do you remember what happened?”

Darcy breathes through her nose (the air is clean and burns her nose). The memories are there, sharp and vicious. She starts to shake, “Oh God- he-”

“Shhh.” The woman croons, kneeling down beside her. “Shhh. He’ll never hurt you again, птичка. He is dead.”

She sucks in another breath. Her skin feels like it’s crawling. Everything hurts.  “Did you kill him?”

The woman stares a Darcy a long moment. Up this close she can see where the blood on her face has dried and cracked. “Yes.”

Darcy sighs and turns her head to look back up at the sky with all its stars, “Good.”

“You don’t care?” She looks guarded, wary of what Darcy might think.

“Why should I? He was a monster… you know he showed me… the par-parts of the other girls he kept. Before he-” She breaks off. The shaking resumes. The red headed woman strokes at her face, murmuring something to in her what she thinks might be Russian.

“What’s your name?”

“Darcy.”

“I am Natasha. I promise you will never be hurt again. Not as long as I am living.”

She thinks of those final moments in his basement. Of the knife that gouged its way through her stomach; upwards and into her lungs. She breathes in again and can feel the agonizing pull of muscles and organs and tissues that should never be torn apart. But she is whole. She’s not sure if that scares her more.

“I should be dead.”

The wary look returns to Natasha’s face. There is something she does not want to tell her.

She panics, “Oh God- I should be dead- I should be _dead! Oh God I’m dead,_ aren’t I?! You’re talking to my ghost.”

“I’m not talking to your ghost.”

“ _I should be dead._ What aren’t you telling me?!”

Natasha grimaces, “You were dying… I saved you. I changed you.”

“Changed me?” She tries to sit up and Natasha pushes her back down with a firm hand. It’s cool on her exposed collarbone. It takes a moment for Darcy to realise she’s clothed only in a cotton bedsheet and a soft, woollen blanket. She remembers the work Ross had been halfway through when he’d heard the disturbance and understands. She fights the urge to ask about him, “You changed me?”

Natasha shifts beside her and Darcy moves her head to follow the movement. She is avoiding her eye, “You changed me. What did you change me into? _What am I?_ ” she adds the steel to her voice without even thinking about it- the kind she’d used on patrons who’d thought she was an interactive exhibit. Natasha turns back to her in response; she looks like she wants to smile, but for the situation.

“I’m a vampire.”

Darcy blinks. Breathes in deeply. Blinks again and breathes out, “A vampire.”

Natasha nods once, warily.

“I’m a vampire now?”

She nods again.

Darcy lets her head rolls back to stare up at the sky. She lets out another shuddering breath and winces at the dull pain it triggers in her abdomen. “Okay.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Natasha starts, “Okay? Just okay?”

“Well the last time I was awake, I was bleeding out on Ross’ sorry excuse for an operating table. To be honest, vampire is looking pretty plausible right about now.”

She turns back to catch the small smile on Natasha’s lips. The other woman settles down properly on the ground, leaning her arms on her crooked knees, “Okay.” She echoes.

Darcy sighs and turns back to the stars. They’re so _bright_ \- she’s never seen so many of them, and the half-filled moon is almost blinding. It casts the world around her into sharp relief, now that her eyes have adjusted, “So are we just gonna sit around all night?”

An elongated pause. “We’re waiting for my… coven.” Natasha says eventually, “They’ll be here soon.”

Darcy huffs softly through her nose, “I’m guessing that’s not what you usually call them.”

“… No.”

“So. A vampire. Does that make you my sire? Am I, like your slave now? Can I turn into a bat and fly the fuck away from here?”

Natasha sends her the side eye, “Neither of those things are real.”

“Well according to all those shitty romance novels I’ve apparently been wasting my money on, they are. I hope you’ve been cashing in on that, by the way”

Her lips twitch in amusement, “A couple of us have, over the years.”

“Cheeky.”

They fall silent once again. Natasha is staring at her with those eerie, cat-like eyes. Darcy finds a certain kind of comfort in the gaze; it asks nothing of her. Her body aches, and her eyes feel dry and tired. She close them to try and dispel the feeling, but the move only brings to attention just how exhausted she is (she’s been with Ross for _weeks_ ). When she opens her eyes she finds she can barely keep them open.

Natasha rests a hand on her shoulder and keeps it there. The pressure is so light it feels like almost nothing, “You can rest. You are safe.”

“With you. I know.” She smiles and lets her eyes slide close and allows herself to drift. Her world reduces to the soft sound of breathing from Natasha and the push and pull of air in her chest. In the distance, she can hear the sturdy rumble of a car, drawing closer. Natasha’s hand on her shoulder doesn’t move so she lets it come.  She fades in and out, only drawing to the surface when a car door slams and the sound of boots crunching on gravel fill her ears. She tries to open her eyes but they’re stuck shut.

“A stray, Natashenka?”

Silence from Natasha, but Darcy is suddenly being lifted by strong, thin arms. Her head rolls into the crook of their neck and hair tickles at her nose. Her eyes refuse to open to check if it’s Natasha, but she can smell something spicy and exotic lying beneath the thick undercurrent of blood. She exhales against their skin, and the arms holding her draw in tighter.

“She looks like she’s been through a number.” Another man says as she’s carried forwards. The soft sway of their steps is comforting.

“I found her with the Gardener.” Natasha says, almost right beside Darcy’s ear. There’s an extended pause in the conversation. One of the men swears.

“The serial killer? You tellin’ me you found _The_ Gardener? The guy the cops have been looking fer him for fuckin’ _years_?”

Natasha hums softly, “I heard her screams.” She settles Darcy down in the car, somehow manoeuvring her along the length of the back seat without jostling her too badly. The car door closes and another opens. Darcy’s head is lifted onto the woman’s lap and the other doors open and close. The car starts with a steady rumble.

“Did you eat him?” The second voice asks.

Natasha answers with an almost silent snarl, “ _Please_. I wouldn’t taint myself with such filth. Not anymore.”

“ _Amen to that._ ” The other man mutters softly.

“He’s dead though, right?”

A gentle hand runs through her hair- it’s largely tangle free. Ross had an eerie kind of fascination with her hair- sometimes he’s spend an entire night just combing it. The experience was almost worse than the cutting; the violation of such a soothing action burning deeper into her psyche than her wounds.

She pushes the revulsion away. Ross was dead. Natasha promised.

“I…. took care of him.”

“Are they gonna find the body, Nat?”

“… Probably. We’ll have to call the cops in a couple of days.” The car descends into silence. The vehicle rocks gently as it travels.

“You changed her, didn’t you?” The first voice asks eventually, “I can smell your blood on her.”

The hand in her hair tightens, “When he noticed I was there, he stabbed her. She was going to die.”

“Do you think she’ll even want to live after whatever that fucker did to her?”

A cool, dry hand runs across her brow, “Yes.”

“You’ve condemned her to this life, you know that right?”

“Bucky!” the other man chastises.

A finger rubs at the corner of her mouth, the pad of her thumb catching slightly on her lower lip, “I know.”

Bucky sighs heavily, “So long as you’re aware, I guess.”

“Acutely.”

“Did you tell her?”

A soft huff of a laugh, “Yeah. It was like she didn’t even care.”

“That may have just been the shock talking.”

“… Maybe. She’s… interesting. I think she’d get along well with Stark.”

“That is not a comforting thought, Natasha.”

Natasha hums and Darcy fades out again, the gentle rolls of the car and the muted hum of quiet conversation lulling her back into her daze. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bucky totally writes smutty vampire romance novels in his eons of spare time. It satisfies his sordid sense of humour.
> 
> Vampires in this AU are kind of an odd, bastardized take on the multiple vampire strands that exist out there. I've been pulling elements from various traditions (and in some parts making my own) to shamelessly meet my own ends. Most of it will be explained along the way, but for this chapter, all you need to know is that to Turn, someone who has consumed vampire blood must die, and consume human blood within the next twenty-four hours (so, Vampire Diaries). But, unlike in Vampire Diaries, vampire blood does not heal a human.  
> Because Reasons. 
> 
> Oh, and please forgive my google translate Russian. It's quite possibly a little rusty.


	2. Tricksters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not the happiest with this chapter, but it could be a lot worse.  
> Oh, and. The serial killer is called Casper Ross; not actually General Ross from the Hulk comics... although I understand the confusion, and it certainly should have occurred to me when I was writing it... but yeah. Not him. ALTHOUGH, if you really want to, you could say that he's like a relative of General Ross.

As it turned out, Casper Ross had been watching her for weeks.

She’d noticed him at the club, of course. He had that kind of handsome, intense face that would have had her interested were it not for the fact that she met him at _The Tricksters_. When he kept on returning, night after night, she thought of him as only another addition to her regular patrons. She hadn’t been concerned- the security at _Tricksters_ was above par, and he’d never made a move to touch her or make her uncomfortable. He’d never even asked for a private showing- though it was clear to everyone involved that it was only ever ‘Sally Sparrow’ he came for. He barely gave the other girls a second glance.

Darcy didn’t mind that- he tipped well; he didn’t _seem_ like a creeper.  

Even so, she knew better than to ever go near him. Patrons were- and would always remain- strictly off-limits. So when she saw him once during the day, in her ‘civilian’ clothes, she’d walked straight on by. She’d been confident he wouldn’t recognise her; without her over-the-top makeup and with her hair pulled back in a severe bun (not to mention her fondness for knits and baggy clothing) she looked vastly different from her stage persona.

And then he’s smiled and winked at her, and her heart had nearly burst out of her chest. Never had she finished her shopping so quickly.

That night in May- the day everything had gone to shit- she’d finished up for the night, taking the back exit like she always did. Her first mistake.

Her job doesn’t finish til three, and Darcy knows better than to venture out into the streets of Boston without her hand wrapped firmly around her Taser. _Especially_ when coming out of a strip club. She’s heard plenty of stories of girls being mugged- or worse- on their way home, and Darcy is determined to never become a statistic. She carries a can of pepper spray in her coat too, but so far she’s been lucky. So far she hasn’t needed to use them (not when coming home from work, at any rate).

The back alley smells like stale piss and garbage like it always does, and she can see the blackened silhouette of Mark- the bodyguard the club assigned to the exit to stop any would-be creepers from waiting out for the girls to go home- leaning against a wall. His breath swells with smoke, the tip of a cigarette a circle of orange in the darkness.

“Hey!” She says, navigating her way through the trash-covered alley. She tugs at the sleeves of her sweater, pulling them over her hands to keep her fingers warm.

He gives her a wave, and she smiles as she pulls out her phone, readying herself for her nightly ritual of pretending to be talking on it the whole way home, “How’s Macie? Is she feeling better yet?”

Mark steps away from the wall, and she becomes acutely aware of the wrongness of his figure- too thin and willowy, though his height is similar. Her breath stutters in her chest.

“Macie’s good, Sally.” The stranger says. She steps back, pulling out her Taser, “Thanks for asking.”

She aims and shoots for the man, but in he’s faster, and her world is reduced to the _bzz-zap_ of another taser, and the strangled gasps that she belatedly realizes are coming from her.

 _Fuck, but it shittin’ hurts!_ She thinks as she falls to the ground, limbs frozen in twitchy, agonizing tremors. The man looms over her, leaning down and drawing in close. She makes out a semi-familiar jawline and a sharp aquiline nose before he’s holding something damp against her mouth at nose and the 50 000 volts of electricity stop flooding through her system. Her Taser is plucked from her fingers and tucked into his coat.

She never even had a hope of holding her breath. The sickly sweet chloroform fills her mouth and she tries to push him away- tries to get away from him but her limbs are as weak as a newborn babe and twitching still, even as the icy numbness sets in. She sobs into the cloth, and the nausea and wrongness of it all has her crying, though the world is turning black at the edges as the man pulls her up and out of the alley.

The last thing she sees before she blacks out is a nondescript white van, turned yellow under a streetlight.

 

* * *

 

Darcy doesn’t know long she’s been out for, but when she wakes up she’s been hogtied and gagged, lying on her side in the back of the van. If she could hazard a guess though, it’s not been long if the lack of aching in her jaw is anything to go by. The jostling of the vehicle as it drives through fuck knows where is semi-painful, jarring her shoulder with every pothole and divot in the road her driver takes.

For one, drawn out moment she allow herself to panic, blindly. She is terrified, there’s no denying. This is _exactly_ what she’d refused to become- a statistic; another victim for the state to write off with an ‘oh well, better luck next time’. It’s all her worst nightmares wrapped into one, and _fuck_ but she can’t see herself being able to work herself free of those zip ties. Not without cutting off her fucking hands.

But she only lets the panic last a moment. She will not let the man have the better of her. She wriggles about the floor of the van, searching for anything that might help her, but all she can see are a few empty candy wrappers and an old paperback novel. There is a fleck of something dark on one of its corners. She tries very hard to not convince herself its blood.

(She fails. The overwhelming smell of bleach and pine scented disinfectant does nothing to quell her fears)

With little else to do, she tries to content herself with fighting the panic and biding her time, trying to memorise every twist and turn the van makes- as though maybe it will save her.

But the trip is long- she loses focus after the first half-hour, and come forty-five minutes she’s struggling to keep her eyes open- the combination of work, the taser and the chloroform has her exhausted. Even twisted in such an unnatural position, even with the fear that’s yet to leave her, she can’t help it.

She falls asleep.

 

* * *

 

She wakes when the van stops moving. She has no idea how long it’s been- she can’t see anything through the filled in spaces where windows should be, and the driver’s cab is blocked from view by a cargo shield covered with a heavy, black material, but she’s certain is must be morning by now.

The engine stops, and her whole body tenses as the driver’s door opens and closes loudly, as though her kidnapper wasn’t worried about being caught out. The back doors open, and she tries to hide her instinctive flinch behind a glare filled with as much hatred and animosity as she can. The man just chuckles and opens the doors wider; the blast of daylight burns her retinas.

“Well hey there, pretty lady.” The man murmurs in a drawn out southern accent. The fucker is so disgustingly _cheery_ it makes her skin crawl, “Been waiting to show you my cabin for a while now.”

She tries to snarl something _decidedly_ unsavoury at him, but through the gag it only comes out as a pathetic whimper. She blinks at the white spots that blind her vision. The man chuckles and climbs into the van, crouching down in front of her. He smells of cigarette smoke and patchouli, “Let me help you with that.” The southern drawl is gone, replaced with a neutral, upstate New York accent. He sets the something down at his feet and reaches forwards, his hands brushing her face gently as he tugs and pulls on a catch behind her ear. She shudders at the touch and pulls her lips back in a snarl when the gag finally comes off.

“Fuck you, you disgusting piece of shi-” He grabs her jaw roughly before she can finish and she almost bites her tongue at the bruising touch.

“I thought you’d have some fight in you, sweetheart,” He purrs, tugging her in close. He grips her jaw so tightly it feels like he could break it, “And I like that- I really do. But it’s been a long drive, and I would _really_ like to just get inside and get some sleep.” He smiles, and she is scared out of her wits, because this is the man from the supermarket. This is one of her regulars, “I’m sure you’d like some rest too; you worked hard last night.”

She bites her lips so hard to stop herself from spitting at him she draws blood. She can taste it- like rust on her tongue. The man makes a small noise of concern and rubs his thumb against the wound- she jerks away at the touch, but his grip on her chin holds her fast, “Pretty girl like you shouldn’t be hurting yourself like that.” He grins, but the smile doesn’t reach his eyes, “That’s for me to do.”

With that he lets go of her, turning her over. She feels something cold brush against the palf of her hand, and hears the quiet _snick_ of him cutting through a ziptie. She groans at the sudden release of her position, but her limbs have been held like that for so long she can barely move- muscles drawn in tight. He chuckles and drags her backwards, towards the doors and she can do little more than struggle weakly, but he ignores her show of defiance. The van shifts as he exits it, and she hears the unsteady roll of plastic wheels on uneven ground, and then he’s looming over her again, arms scooping her up and depositing her in a wheelbarrow. She hisses in discomfort at the blinding light of mid-morning, and counts the barrow as a small mercy- he could be carrying her still.

They’re on a farm, she notes. It’s empty of most things she’d have thought she’d see on a farm- like cows, or pigs or dogs- but she spots a chicken foraging around in an overgrown garden when she turns her head. To her left is an old barn, and an open expanse of green fields spread out behind it.

“Here we are, Sally.” He tuts, pulling the wheelbarrow backwards and away from the vehicle, “Sorry- _Darcy_.” He corrects, “I’m so used to thinking of you as Sally Sparrow. Loved the title, by the way- its reference to the Angels had a certain tragic poetry that I appreciated. Though I don’t think many of your other patrons spotted the reference.

“I like you, Darcy. The moment I saw you, I knew you would be it. You’re strong, intelligent- beautiful. I’m hoping your strength will shine through here.” His conversational tone belies the terrifying reality of the situation, and for all her rapid fire wit and intellect, she can’t think of a lick of anything worth saying. The man doesn’t seem to care, “The first ones I found… they were silly, empty-headed things. Broke almost as soon as I tried to play with them.” Darcy closes her eyes. Draws in a deep, shuddering breath, “I had to be more selective after that. But I think you take the cake. I’ll have fun with you.”

She wants to cry, “You’re a serial killer.”

He laughs as they trundle along, passing the barn. Through some weather-beaten slats she spots the red and green hulk of a tractor, “I sure am.”

“… What’s your name?” She turns her head to look at him. He’s smiling again- a soft little smirk that leaves her insides churning with unease.

“I’ll pretend you’re asking that because you’re interested, and not because you want to know in case you’re rescued.” He leans down slightly as he pushes her along, blue eyes flashing in the bright light, “I’ll tell you a secret- you won’t be.” He pulls back, “But my name’s Casper. Casper Ross.

“No need to introduce yourself; I know all about _you_ , Darcy Lewis. You’re a smart woman; graduated from Culver with a masters in Poli Sci, but dabbled in a number of things before then. Ended up in Boston after a relationship turned sour. Found yourself in _Tricksters_ when you couldn’t find work and couldn’t afford to move back.” He sets the cart down beside the door of another shed- newer and cleaner- and pulls out a set of keys, “I liked that about you; your pragmatism. It’s what’s working in my favour, even now.”

“What did you do to the others?” She breathes. He rolls her inside. The corrugated iron walls are covered with foam sound proofing.

“You’ll see soon enough.” He grunts, and stops the barrow again, pulling her out and carrying her awkwardly down a set of stairs. Darcy tries to be as inconvenient a weight as possible as he carries her down, but he staggers only a little- otherwise unaffected by the tactic.

At the bottom of the stairs, they pass through two cramped and sparsely furnished rooms, each with unusual, heavy iron doors. _They’re old bomb shelters_ , she realises; evidently built by someone with a lot of money and a nihilistic view of the eighties. She bites her lip again when he steps into a clearly renovated, larger room. The walls and floor are tiled a crisp white, but the main focus is the steel table in the middle of the room with the padded restraints bolted onto its surface. She looks away, eyes drawn to the two bookcases on one of the walls and she can’t help the whispered ‘ _Oh God_ ’ slips out when she sees a hand stored in formaldehyde. In a jar.

It’s not the only body part on there.

Ross chuckles and stops, turning so she can see the display better, “You like the décor?”

Darcy can’t tear her eyes from the stretch of scarred leather framed between the bookshelves.

She shakes her head mutely. She’s certain if she opens her mouth she will inevitably throw up. Ross snickers and she closes her eyes, filled with the fervent wish that she could cripple him with her mind. He carries her on, and dumps her down onto a thin foam mattress in the room beyond. She grunts in pain when it jars her shoulder and the bones in her hip.

Darcy laughs when he kneels down, pressing her head down into the mattress that smells like rot and dust. It is in no small way a hysterical laugh.

“What?” He asks, cutting through the zipties on her feet. She turns as soon as her limbs are free, and laughs again at the handgun he’s trained on her, preventing her from attacking or escaping.

“You’re like every stereotypical serial killer Hollywood’s ever cooked up.” She wheezes through her laughter.

He snarls, suddenly angry, and kicks out at her. Quicker than she’d thought was possible, she grabs at his foot before he can make connection and _pulls_ , utilizing the self-defence lessons she’d taken in college. He falls on his ass and she makes a desperate scrabble for the gun, but his other hand comes flying- fist-shaped and slamming into the side of her head with enough force to send her limp and skidding across the cold concrete floor. She tries to get up as he stands, but her head is spinning and she feels like it’s about to split in two. Ross moves forwards, as if to kick her again, but thinks better of it and draws back.

“That will only happen _once_ , Darcy.” He growls, standing safely out of reach. She watches him shake himself, and the anger falls away, as though he were shedding a coat, “I’ll let you settle down.”

She turns to face the ceiling, closing her eyes and waits for him to leave. Through the ringing in her ears she hears the slide of a deadbolt and something heavier locking into place. She waits for him to walk away- hears the door to the white room close- before she lets herself cry; long and ugly sobs that she hopes aren’t audible.

Darcy is so, so scared right now.

When the crying subsides, she takes stock. Her muscles ache to the bone, her jaw feels loose and clumsy and her head throbs viciously, but aside from that she’s okay. She’s alive, at least. Her hair is loose and free of any kind of pins she could have used, and he’d removed her scarf and shoes. Her necklace and locket are still around her neck- for whatever reason he’d seen fit to leave them there- but they’re not of any use. The pockets of her jeans are empty, but she could probably take out the underwires in her bra for something. Her room holds only her mattress, some blankets and a toilet. There’s a bottle of water (plastic- the crushable kind) and a couple of protein bars left discarded in a corner. She crawls over to them clumsily, gathering them together, though there’s a thought in the back of her mind that tells her she should be suspicious of their presence.

And that’s when she realised what’s on the walls.

He’s stuck photographs on the walls- taped so she can’t do anything with them- of her predecessors. Or what was left of them. She pulls herself up, leaning heavily against the cistern and stares at the images in mute horror.

 _He…. He_ butchered _them._

Image after image of women with glazed eyes tied to that stainless steel table. Girls lying right where she was standing. Girls standing naked or barely clothed, their exposed skin a mess of cuts and swellings. Close-ups of skin with _pictures_ carved into it. Arms, torsos, _faces_ ; ruined and skinned or pieced back together again with reddened threads.

She staggers back. Her skin _crawls_. Her stomach revolts and she collapses at the feet of the porcelain god, upending what little was in her stomach until there’s nothing but bile and tears and wretched, terrified sobs. When the nausea finally ebbs, she finds her terror has been replaced with a strange kind of electrifying certainty. She sits beside the mattress, contemplating the idea as it solidifies in her mind.

She does not like its conclusion.

Because Darcy Lewis is going to die here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Darcy does not hate her job; Darcy enjoys it immensely, most times. Even though some guys are gross, it's extremely satisfying to hold the kind of power she finds from clinging to a pole over her audience. Sure, she'd rather be doing work that corresponds to her degree, but in the meantime it pays the bills, the tips are great, and it sure as hell beats waiting tables. With that said, her old job is unlikely to follow her into the afterlife. 
> 
> So warnings for the next chapter (and I don't know when that'll be up- I'm working on it atm, but I'm also in the middle of prac and have a uni assignment due Monday night... so... yeah...), there will be possible triggers/squicks. I mean... Darcy has been kidnapped by a serial killer. Shit is not gonna be starshine and rainbows. Not until at least chapter four, at least. But anyway, I'll list them when I post the next chapter for ya'll.


	3. The Gardener

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING  
> Potential triggers for:  
> Torture  
> Implied or Explicit Sexual Assault (but not rape)  
> non-consensual body modification/mutilation
> 
> IF THESE ARE NOT YOU CUP OF TEA, AVOID THIS CHAPTER

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shit gets fuckin' real.  
> I love how many people find Casper creepy as all get out. It's always satisfying to know I got the effect I was trying for :)

He comes for her the next day.

By that point she’d given into the gnawing hunger and eaten one of the protein bars. She makes sure not to look at the walls, lest the pictures make her sick again. She had contemplated tearing them down, but for the moment she couldn’t bring herself to even look at them- let alone touch them. She whiles away her day working at the underwires of her bra; it’s a struggle. She’s not exactly rich with resources here and the skin of her hands aren’t known for their durability. By the time she manages to get one out, she’s torn three nails and the skin of her index fingers feel raw and achy. She hides the wires behind the toilet and slips the bra back on in case Ross comes back.

She’s drifting in and out of a half-hearted daze when he returns; a steady tapping of boots on concrete and tile, and the scrape of the bolts behind her door. She pulls herself up into a rough sitting position as the door opens. Ross stands in the doorway, holding something that resembles a cattle prod.

“Evening, Darcy.” He says cheerily. She bares her teeth at him and he laughs, “I need you to get up; did you like the decorations?”

“Fuck you, psycho.”

Ross rolls his eyes, “Psycho? Yes, probably. I had a girlfriend once who diagnosed me with psychopathy.” His face turns distant, “She was training to be a psychologist. She’d have been my first, had she not died in that car crash.” His eyes drift up to the pictures that ring the room. Darcy doesn’t need to ask him what he means by his ‘first’.

His eyes snap back on Darcy and she glares at him, “Up you get, sweetheart. I’ve got big plans for you.”

“No.”

He grimaces, swinging the prod around like a baton to emphasise his points, “See now, I knew you’d be like this. Plucky girl like you? Like _you’re_ going to take direction from a man. Certainly not when he’s coercing you with the threat of violence.” He grins, vicious and sharp edged, and takes a step forwards, “But I’m not threatening you, Darcy. I am _ordering_ you-” He lurches forwards, the prongs jabbing into her upper thigh. She screams as the voltage runs through her, and bites back a sob when he pulls the prod away, “-To get. _Up_. Down here, you are _mine_ , Sally Sparrow.” He enunciates each point with another stab of the prod, and each shock is followed by an agonized scream.

The tears are flowing freely again by the time he finishes, and Darcy is a trembling wreck on the floor. She does not beg, even as he grabs her by the hair and drags her into a standing position, and she stands on the mattress on shaky legs. Casper grins at her, “That’s better. Now strip.”

She starts, “What-”

“ _I said strip_.” He snarls, the threat of violence in his eyes, “Strip, or so help me I will cut those clothes off you myself.”

She shakes her head mutely and the line of his shoulders slump. He sends his eyes upwards, as if asking for the strength to deal with tiresome women, “Very well then,” he bemoans, and stabs the prod into her ribs. She holds the scream back behind her teeth and falls to her knees, “I guess I’ll just have to do _everything_ myself.” He picks her up by the hair again and drags her out of the room, being careful to keep the prod aimed at the space between her breasts. Between her sobbing and her struggles he manages to manoeuvre her onto the steel table. He straddles her and she screams at him, right into his face.

The backhand slams her head against the table and the screaming abruptly cuts off. She blinks up at him in a distressed daze as he leans over and fastens her arms and throat and chest to the table. It’s icy cold, but through the roaring in her head and the deep-seated ache in her limbs she can’t fight him hard enough to stop him.

She almost whispers a broken ‘please’ to him when he gets off her to tie down her legs (so _many_ restraints), but stops herself before it slips out. Begging won’t save her. She can feel it in her bones.

When it’s done, he stands back, eyes raking over her body. They linger in dissatisfaction on her clothing.

“Should have just drugged the water.” He mutters, turning around to take a pair of scissors from the bench that runs along the other side of the room. They shine brightly in the sterile fluorescent lights, the kink in their blades identifying them as trauma shears. She flinches at his casual touch on her stomach and bares her teeth at him as he cuts straight up the front of her sweater.

“I swear to God, I’ll kill you, you disgusting piece of shit.” She snarls.

Casper Ross just laughs, “I love it when you talk dirty to me, sweetheart.” He purrs. The bottom of the blades are icy cold on her skin and she flinches.

“You’re _sick_.” Darcy tells him, though she’s not sure what she’s trying to achieve.

“I am.” He agrees solemnly, and exposes her with a decisive _snick_ of her collar. He pulls apart the sides of her sweater, taking in the expanse of skin with a strange sort of academic indifference, “But I’m also _very_ talented.” He smiles softly, amused by something and turns around, back to the bench, “You have such nice skin. It almost feels a shame to touch it.”

He comes back, holding an admittedly skilful design of what he plans to do with her. She shudders, stomach revolting and closes her eyes. There are an awful lot of red lines; most of them centred around her torso, “Of course, these are only the preliminary sketches. I want this to be an organic, experimental experience. For the both of us.”

“I’m not some toy you can play with as you please.” She rasps through her hammering heartbeat. She keeps her eyes stubbornly closed, “You _can’t do this_.”

Casper taps on one of her collarbones and she flinches and opens her eyes at the unexpected touch, “Oh, I know that. But honestly where would be the fun in marking something I already knew was mine?”

“ _Christ,_ you-”

Then he’s cutting down the lines of her arms and she abruptly shuts up. She can’t think of anything to say anyway. He tugs the sweater away from underneath the restraining cuffs, but doesn’t bother to pull it out from under her. He uncaps a permanent marker, staring at her stomach in contemplation. He doesn’t look entirely happy with the area, “I mean…” he says, trailing off, “I hadn’t _wanted_ to start with your abdomen today.”

He brushes his knuckles across her skin and Darcy flinches, trying to move away from the contact but she’s restrained too well; she can barely more than twitch.

The breath in her lungs just seems that little bit harder to push out.

Casper smirks, and presses the flat of his palm against the skin just above and to the right of her bellybutton. She turns her head to the side, ignoring the ominous way in which the padded strap crossing her throat digs in. He giggles- a funny, high-pitched thing that seems to almost border on hysteria, “You’d best get used to it, Darcy. There’ll be far more touching in about…” he squints at a cheap, white clock fastened to the wall, “hmm, let’s say, ten minutes.”

She bites her lip and closes her eyes again. He hums to himself and starts drawing. The pen is an uneven, slightly cool drag across her skin, but the way he touches her makes her want to tear herself out of her own skin. Every now and then he asks for her input; as though this were just some tattoo parlour, and she _wasn’t_ strapped to a table, plagued with the knowledge that she was at Ross’ absolute mercy:

“What do you think, Darcy? Roses or peonies?” he taps her face when she refuses to answer, “Look at me, Darcy. I asked you a question; roses, or peonies?”

She shudders, “Eat a dick.”

He frowns at her, “Now that isn’t nice. I’m going you a good deed, Miss Lewis. I am _transforming_ you. By the time we are done, your beauty will transcend this plane of existence.”

“ _Fuck. You.”_

He hums again, ignoring her now, “I’m thinking the peonies. Roses are so clichéd- been there, done that.”

By the time he’s done with the drawing, he’s covered the whole of her stomach in precise black lines- thin and almost elegant. Darcy’s not sure if that makes it better or worse.

He turns around, dropping the pen in a draw with a clatter and she watches him tilt his head as he stares at the bench. She’s only half grateful she doesn’t have to see what instruments he owns- what crimes of torture he could very easily commit. The line of his shoulders are relaxed and unaffected, as though he’s done this a million times before.

Her throat tightens at the memory of those pictures. He _has_ done this a million times before.

He comes back to her with an array of things, spread out on a little trundle table that he drags over near her head. Form her awkward angle, all she can see are the precisely set lines of scalpels and a large pot of some light-grayish cream.

Casper picks up a scalpel, twirling it in his fingers expertly. He grins and winks at her. There is a fanatic kind of cruelty in his eyes, “This is exciting for me. The first cut. It’s always such a momentous occasion; like the beginnings of a new journey.

“I’m hoping, Darcy, that you’ll make me proud; ‘cause I’ve got a little bet going on with myself that says you won’t start screaming for at least a good ten minutes.”

And then he puts the scalpel down on her skin and _cuts_.

She barely lasts five minutes, let alone ten.

 

 

* * *

 

They called him The Gardener.

The press loves serial killers, but they found the perfect subject in The Gardener. They love the macabre tales his murders- stretched over the years and several States- generate. They focus for weeks on end over each new body that emerges, latching onto the topic like a rabid dog with a bone, with endless discussions and dissections of each girl’s life. They lament at the police that are still scratching their heads, unable to work out who it is, and no one has any clue where the next one will be taken from.  

He has a type, they work out by the third one; pretty, young things with pale skin and dark hair and jobs where no one will find their disappearances suspicious. His ‘Snow Whites’. The bodies he leaves behind weeks- sometimes months- later, in public gardens are always incomplete; organs missing, arms and legs sawn off at the joint (and that one time where that girl from Hartford had turned up with her torso completely stripped of skin), their skin carved into intricately. Almost beautifully. He holds some of them for long enough that some of the wounds are already healed over.

Casper Ross thinks they name they give him is glorious.                                                                                                                      

“I’d prefer it if they’d call me The Artist.” He tells Darcy one day, his face pressing in close to her body so he can see the work of his scalpel. It is one of the rare days where he chooses to gag her, and soft music plays in the background, “What I do is _so much more_ than what a gardener could ever achieve. What I do is _art_.” She whimpers through the gag, twitching as his blade moves deeper than it should. He grimaces in displeasure, “Of course, any publicity is good publicity, am I right?”

Darcy wishes she had access to a knife so she could stab it through his eye. She settles for fantasizing about a knight of indiscriminate gender charging through the door and tearing him to shreds.

(though she'd much rather do it herself)


	4. Rescue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Casper gets what's coming to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, sorry to those who were grossed out/etc by the last chapter. Honestly it's not something I really like to dwell on, though I will say that I did warn you :I 
> 
> WARNING  
> Potential triggers for:  
> Torture  
> Implied or Explicit Sexual Assault (but not rape)  
> non-consensual body modification/mutilation
> 
> IF THESE ARE NOT YOU CUP OF TEA, you can go to the text in bold about halfway through. It avoids most of these triggers, though there is still:  
> observations of blood and body mutilation  
> graphic depictions of violence/ torture  
> BUT they are far milder or in-your-face than the last chapter and a half, and if you want to see Casper get what's coming to him, I suggest you read.

Their meetings have a pattern.

Day one, Casper will enter, armed with the cattle prod; hitting her and coercing her onto the table, strapping her down as she screams and fights.

She always fights. It doesn’t matter that the likelihood of her escaping are lower than zero. After the first time, he kept her in chains (like a fucking _slave_ ); it was the easiest way for him to keep her in check, though the moment he took them off to situate her properly on the table, she would try to fight him and he would hit her or taze her or choke her out and force her into place whilst she struggled weakly in a pained daze.

Then he’d clean the area he wanted, draw on it and go to town with the scalpel, rubbing the grey cream that hurt worse than the cutting did, agitating the wounds and burning like fucking _bitch_. She’d scream, and cry and black out more than once.

By the time he was done with her, she’d be in a different kind of daze; spaced out and docile from the pain; letting him carry her back into her room without complaint; sticking the chains back on before he left.

Ross would return the next day. Smiling and clean, he’d turn down the lid of the toilet and sit with her. Sometimes he’d just sit there- staring, whilst she pretended to sleep. Often he’d bring out a brush, threatening her into position between his legs, turned away so he could run his fingers through her hair, brushing it slowly and gently with a reverence that made her sick. It was like some kind of fucked up aftercare, but she found the latent threat of violence to be far worse than his frequent displays of casual cruelty.

This behaviour would continue for another two to three visits (days. Darcy is pretty sure each one marked a day, but it was hard to tell), and then he’d be back again, pushing and shoving and coercing her and the cycle would begin all over again. She marked each visit in tears along the edges of the pictures- short ones for visits, long ones for Visits.

It’s the twenty-eighth day and the ninth visit when a change comes. It starts off routine; Darcy fought (even though every move hurt deep down to her bones, and tore open several scabbed over marks), Casper fought back and inevitably won. He’s working on her right thigh; one of the few places still untouched.

It’s early stages yet; Darcy still has her voice and she uses it to scream as loudly as she can, in the ever decreasing hope that someone will hear her. It hasn’t happened yet, but she tries to reason that it’s only been four weeks. It probably took two weeks for anyone to even realise she was missing anyway.

Casper is humming to himself between her cries. He’s gotten good at ignoring her; though it’s clear that to a certain extent he enjoys it. He likes to tell her a little about himself once she’d quietened down to gasping sobs, but they haven’t reached that point yet. Even so, she’s been wailing for long enough that she knows there’s a blackout coming- her head feels light and airy, and her chest is thrumming with tension.

Casper is working on what feels like another lily- he’s done them so many times she knows what they feel like as he cuts them into her skin- when there’s a violent vibration from behind him. He twitches, abruptly straightening up in surprise. A flicker of fear crosses his face- she catches sight of it just before he turns around. Darcy knows he has some kind of monitoring system in place around the property- she’s seen the screens in the StartTabs he has sitting on the bench- she knows he has cameras set up. Hope surges through her- _someone’s here!_ She tosses up whether she should keep on screaming, or whether that would just provoke him. She decides it might be the latter- for all Ross’s predilection for being calm and collected, he had a hot, impulsive streak a mile long.

The hope dissipates when Ross sighs heavily and picks up a knife.

“I didn’t want to have to do this so soon, Darcy. I apologise.”

She stares at him in renewed horror through her blurry vision (she’d had to get rid of her contacts after day two, for fear of contracting an eye infection), “No _please_ \- I-”

With a display of violence Darcy could never have thought could be so dispassionate, he lifts his arm and plunges it into her stomach, twisting and pushing it upwards. Her breath expels itself from her lungs in an explosion of agony.

She keens as he pulls the knife out. Ross stares at the blood on the blade and his hands in petulant dissatisfaction.

Darcy starts crying- choking on something rising up in her throat- when he turns away. She can’t really see anything else- vision blurring worse than ever- but through the tunnelling of her senses she sees and hears a deafening crash and flashes of red and copper and agonised screams that she’s only partly sure aren’t hers because right now she can’t even breathe- oh God _she can’t breathe_ and she’s _dying_ \- _fuck_ but she doesn’t want to die and she’s not sure if she’s saying that out loud or not, but there’s suddenly a blur of pale skin and vicious red hovering in from of her, and she notes distantly that there’s something pressing against her lips-

-And then all she knows is darkness.

But for the longest of times she doesn’t even know that.

 

* * *

 

**READ FROM HERE FOR A NICER CUP OF TEA:**

 

* * *

 

Natalia’s in the process of draining a cow when she hears it.

A distant scream. High-pitched. Agonized. She almost passes it off as the soundtrack to some bored farmer watching a horror film when it sounds again. It feels… off. Real.

She packs away the half-filled flasks- leaves the cow where it is. The carrion birds will deal with it in the morning, and with any luck its farmer will think she was an alien.

The scream sounds again. It stretches on and on- distorted and warbled, barely even audible over the usual country sounds. Her hackles stiffen further- there’s something distinctly not-right about the sound. She hurries her packing, slinging the pack- uncomfortably bulging- over a shoulder and sets off on a sprint, vaulting over fences and cows until she sees the lights of a distant farmstead.

She pauses there- a solitary figure poised motionless at the peak of a hill- and waits for the sound. Louder now that she’s so close, but still too faint for any human to hear. She takes off again and in mere moments she’d stalking the property, the smell of chicken shit and old blood filling lungs that no longer have a purpose. 

Natalia easily sources the screams to a newer looking barn, and she slips inside, silent and invisible. The screams have stopped, but only momentarily, and the scent of blood is a heady aroma inside the oddly soundproofed barn. There are stairs in a corner, leading downwards. She takes them, ending in front of a heavy iron door. She hears the hum of someone speaking- a man. A woman replies- low and panicked and abruptly cut off- turns into a throaty keen and then the smell of blood is so thick in the air Natalia is almost choking on the urge to throw herself inside and _feed_.

She does the former- barrelling through the set of heavy doors like they are nothing, and takes in the scene beyond in a fraction of a second. A woman- naked, pale and covered in wounds in various stages of healing- lies on a metal table that reminds Natalia far too much of her own times at the hands of butchers. She is gasping and sobbing; the source of her distress an ugly gut-wound. Blood seeps from her mouth.

Her butcherer is still in the process of twisting around; his hands are bloodied, and still holding the knife that done-the-deed. His eyes widen and she launches herself at him, wrapping her legs around his waist and digging her hand into a shoulder and _tears_. His screams are almost deafening so close to her and the proximity of so much blood has her transforming without her consent- the teeth elongating and eyes turning dark and keen- but she can control it. She is, and always will be, above her baser instincts.

Natalia jumps off him as he falls (once, she might have lost it. Once, she may have torn him to shreds in a feeding frenzy. That Once no longer exists). She kicks him for good measure- hears his ribs crack with the force of it. She has not been this brutal to a human in a long time; she ignores his cries. Turns away from the red that will not stain her ledger. 

The woman is dying. Her eyes rove around sightlessly, hands twitching spasmodically in a useless attempt to hold at her stomach. Natalia takes in the endless stretch of mutilated skin, her wide, terrified blue eyes (so _blue_ \- like Steve’s) and the soundless words she mouths- _oh God no I don’t want to die why why I don’t want to die please God why._

Natalia feels a burning sensation around her eyes- the kind that might suggest she wants to cry. _So young_ \- early twenties. It is too cruel- too unfair a fate to instil on anyone. If she’d not dallied with the pack, she could have stopped this, perhaps. It’s odd though, that he would choose to kill her now when it’s clear she’s been with him for several weeks. She glances at the bench, covered in all manner of unholy things and her whole body seizes up.

_Surveillance cameras_.

“дерьмо!” but she hadn’t even thought about the possible presence of cameras. What a ridiculous, careless _rookie_ error. She was trained to be better. This girl’s death is on _her_ shoulders.  If she had been smarter- more careful- the man would never have known she was there and whoever this girl is, wouldn’t be drowning in her own blood. This is _Natalia’s fault_.

_How could she have missed it?_

She turns back to her and bites into her wrist. The blood seeps out- dark and sluggish- and she grasps the woman’s jaw firmly and presses it to her lips. They barely move now; she’d fading fast and Natalia is almost unsure if she’s consuming it. She hopes it works, watching as the last signs of life peter out, replaced with a slack jaw and glassy eyes.

 She closes them gently, and tears apart her restraints as if they were paper. She arranges her limbs as respectfully as she can manage.

When she’s finished she turns back to the man. He’s sobbing, half-crawling away from her. His face is a mess of tears and snot and blood- _so much bloo-_

She reigns it in; settles it and concentrates it into a burning point of light in her chest- a kernel of rage that she can control.

“You,” she snarls, kicking hard at the fleshy part of his thigh. He cries out and falls flat, rolling onto his back to stare up at her, “Who are you?”

He shakes his head, curling his lips at her in a snarl. He’s not afraid of her, she notes with a distant curiosity. It may make interrogation difficult, “Fuck you- I could have had her for another three weeks had you not turne-”

She places her foot on his ankle and presses down with enough force that the threat of breaking it is very real, “What’s her name?”

He grits his teeth and Natalia fulfils the promise of violence. He howls in agony, “Tell me, or I’ll break the other one too.”

“What _are_ you?!”

She answers by grinding down on his unbroken leg. She feels the grind of his bones and he wails and crumbles, “Sally- her name was Sally. Now fucking quit it you bitch-”

A lie. She breaks it anyway, and makes short work of him with a swift kick to the head that snaps his neck clean. It is of no consequence; she has other ways of finding out what she wants, if the girl doesn’t wake. She gives him a dispassionate glare and ignores the bloodlust screaming through her bones. She will not feed on men like that. Not anymore.

Natalia stands before ‘Sally’, contemplative. She won’t wake for several hours yet- if she wakes at all. She’s quite lovely beneath the horrors of the room; thick chestnut hair- smooth and lustrous still, almost in defiance of it all; full lips and smooth, pale skin that even her mutilator couldn’t destroy. She moves away, closer to the door and pulls out her phone. It has enhanced reception- courtesy of Stark. She’s unconcerned about a lack of signal.

She has Bucky on speed dial. 

“Natasha; hey.”

She glances at Sally. Blood still seeps from her mouth; she should get her clean, “I need pick-up.”

A lengthy pause, “Hi to you too. You’re not expected back until tomorrow afternoon… and I thought you had your own ride?”

“I need pick-up. Pronto. Bring blood.”

She hears the sound of keys jingling over the line. It’s not as clear as it could be- she makes a note to rub it into Stark when she gets back, “Ominous. Alright, where are you?”

“Somewhere outside of Ithaca.”

“Wh- _Ithaca_? That’s like…” A moment as Bucky does the math, “fucking five hours away. Christ woman, your idea of urgent is whacked if you think I’m the better option than taking _your_ _own_ fucking car. _Jesus_ , what did you do; trash it again?”

“ _James_ ,” she growls. Her car is entirely unsuitable for the job, and finding it and bringing it back here would leave Sally alone and defenceless for longer than she’s comfortable.

He sighs heavily, “The things I do for you.”

She smiles slightly, “Take Steve.”

He hums, “So where are you, exactly?”

“Not sure,” she grimaces at the lack of intel, “I’ll send you the coordinates.”

She hears him call out for Steve in the background and the distant note of his reply, “Alright. I’ll see you in five hours. Or less. Probably less.”

“Make it less.”

He hangs up and she tucks the phone away. She’ll have to clean it - and herself, at some point too. She moves over to Sally, picking her up and cradling her in her arms. She doesn’t seem to weigh much, but it’s not exactly surprising, and she looks far better than Natalia would have expected given the circumstances. She holds her breath as she carries her out of the room and up the stairs. Sally’s head flops awkwardly and Natalia shifts her body to cradle it against the hollow between her neck and shoulder.

It’s somewhat disconcerting, carrying a corpse like this. For all her long years, she’s never had to carry someone this way. Sure, she’d carried corpses before, but she’s always known that once they’re dead, they’re dead. They have no troubles with how the husks they leave behind are treated.

But she’s never changed someone before. She’s barely sure if it will even work, for pity’s sake.

She kicks down the door of the farmhouse- it’s only thin wood and old glass that shatters on impact with the polished wood floors. It crunches beneath her boots as she manoeuvres them through the doorway. Inside is mostly unremarkable; dated but well-made furniture, obviously bought by someone other than the late owner, and the unlit hallway is lined with aged photographs, ignored and unloved. The living room to the left has on old sofa- an ugly, floral patterned thing turned yellow with age, but with the obvious wear of a comfortable, much-loved piece of furniture- and a variety of carved coffee tables and the incongruous addition of a fifty-inch flatscreen. She rolls her eyes; even out in the middle of butt-fuck nowhere, modernity leaves its mark.

She finds a bathroom a little way on, its white tiles slightly mouldy in places, but not enough to be concerning. The bath- clawed feet, how quaint- has a thick layer of dust on it; it’s clear no one has used it for quite some time.

Natalia rests the woman in the tub and finds its plug resting- mercy of mercies- on the porcelain soap holder extruding from the wall. She runs the water, turning it hot, though she knows there’s little point to the action- Sally won’t mind, still being dead and all.

She turns to the cupboard under the sink as the water runs, rummaging through it for something to add. All she finds are bath salts so old that its label has tuned yellow and flakes away at her touch, and a bottle of body lotion that smells of mould and something that might have once resembled lavender. She grimaces and settles for a dry and cracked cake of soap. The musty-smelling towels neatly folded in the cupboard she removes and shakes out in the hallway. Dust comes off them in a soft cloud, and Natalia tears them in half, and half again, to use as wash cloths. She gives them one more shake and re-enters the bathroom.

Sally’s head has rolled to the side, and from this angle, with the moonlight streaming through the frosted window the dried tear-tracks running down her cheeks are blindingly apparent. Her mouth is a smeared and bloody mess.

Natalia sighs heavily and turns the water off. She cleans Sally’s face first, grimacing at the way her hands leave red prints on the damp cloths.

She takes her time, treating the woman with more care and reverence than she’d honestly thought herself capable of. Natalia may be all soft shapes and sultry voice, but her insides had always been sharp and angular, and her history is bathed in blood. It wasn’t a temperament best suited for bedside manners and nurturing. She left that to Steve and Bucky. Sam too, when he was around.

She has to drain the bath more than once by the time she’s done, and each swipe of the cloth leaves her angrier than ever- a quiet fury bubbling beneath her skin that she’s certain won’t leave her for weeks. She almost regrets killing him so quickly- _Christ, what a fucking mess_. The place is a bloodbath; remarkable, considering only two people are dead, but she’s not exactly been careful. At the very least, she’ll have to take the security footage with her- at the most, a clean sweep of the house and the bunker. Though she’s not planning on notifying the police for a few days yet- plenty of time to clear the place if they need to, and wait for much of the evidence to corrupt itself.

She’d smiled at the little sparrow tattoo on her left shoulder- it was sweet and cute- though it seemed to have been a focus point of the man’s, framed in half-healed raised scars that she’s only half sure hadn’t looked so good a half hour ago. The rest of her seems to be doing the same, though the wound in her stomach is still a nasty mess. The hope she’d worked on squashing swells again in her chest; _it’s working_.

Natalia leaves her there to search for a linen closet- finds one on the second storey and loots it of sheets that smell like sunshine and rain, and a thin woollen blanket that reeks of camphor.  She returns, pats the woman down quickly and clinically, and bundles her up in the sheets and the blanket. She can’t remember her own awakening properly- much of it is just a blur of pain and shouting and hard, bright lights- but she’d rather this one be as untraumatic as possible. She wonders briefly is it’s like this for all sires.

When she’s satisfied with her handiwork, Natalia washes her own face and sheds her outer coat, which took the brunt of the damage, and stuffs it into her bag. She reeks of blood, but it’s something she can easily ignore. She picks up her cargo and carries it back out of the house, content that Sally smells more like soap and mothballs than she does blood now.

For a moment, on the porch, she dallies about where to go. She doesn’t want to wait near the house or the barns; not if there’s any chance of Sally waking and freaking out- but she still wants to be visible enough for Bucky’s arrival. Her eyes follow the dirt road that extends past the farmstead and she smiles slightly in satisfaction at the soft swell of the land that it follows. There are some patches of trees, an odd sheep or two hidden in their shadows, but the crest of it is empty of anything but grass and the occasional stump painted white. She lays Sally down in the slightly wet grass and settles down beside her. She lets her body follow the stoop of the hill, lying on her back to watch the moon and the stars.

They’re far brighter than she’ll ever see in New York City.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... So I swear I'm not really this macabre in the waking world. Christ I can't stand gore or murder porn or even horror in general... and yet here I am writing the shit. Sorry about that... though honestly Vampires aren't exactly renowned for their inauspicious and normal beginnings. Things will get better after this. I swear. 
> 
> Oh, so. The change to Vampirism here is; before you die, you have to ingest a vampire's blood. The blood by itself does nothing- unlike in Vampire Diaries where it can heal you. But a death within 48 hours of ingestion triggers the vampiric process... the blood heals you whilst you're dead (somewhat), and it will takes several hours for you to 'reawaken', but you're not a true vampire until you've consumed human blood. If you don't do that in another 48 hours, then your body essentially starts to decompose, until you rot away and die for good.
> 
> thanks for all the kudos and comments! People are awesome :D


	5. Upsy Daisy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was actually finished a week ago, and I just never got around to editing it and sticking it up. Sorry about that; this week has been filled with other things.   
> Enjoy!

Darcy doesn’t so much wake up as become more coherent than before.

It’s an odd sensation- the sense of not-quite waking from her not-quite sleep- more of a paralytic stupor, really- but she feels rested and lighter than she’s felt in months. She lets the breath escape her in a sharp puff of air and opens her eyes to take stock.

She’s lying on a bed- large, with soft cream sheets and a surprisingly hard mattress. It’s enough to make her certain she’s not dreaming, and she smiles at the high ceiling. She was free. She was safe. And it felt amazing.

She giggles softly- a slightly hysterical thing, but a giggle nonetheless- and rolls and stretches- _ouch_. Her abdomen still aches, though it was nothing like what it had been before. She sighs heavily at the thought.

She swallows heavily and the good feeling disappears like smoke on the wind.

_He’s dead now_. Casper Ross was dead, and she would be the last of his victims. She can take satisfaction in that.

Someone had clothed her, she notices, in an oversized button-up and a pair of shorts just this side of too small. Experimentally, she runs a hand across her stomach- frowning at the raised and uneven skin her fingers come across. She thought Natasha said she’d turned her. She sits up, tugging up the hem to stare at the scars and the twisted line of new skin the length of her middle finger just below her ribcage.

“This was not how I envisioned a debut to vampirism would be,” Darcy murmurs to herself. She’d always thought of vampires as flawless, smooth-skinned creatures, tall and stunning and regal, like they’re made out to be in those books she pretended she didn’t enjoy.

She sighs and brushes the hem down, firmly repressing the swelling disappointment and mild terror at the thought of living with them forever. She was alive, and there was no more psycho Casper. Anything more than that was a definitive improvement, and her grandmother had taught her better than to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Darcy rolls over, sighing a ‘fuck’ into the firm pillow that smells faintly of oranges.

A Vampire. She was a _vampire_.

She frowns and rolls back over. She didn’t feel much different. Not really… okay, so her skin felt tight, like day old sunburn, and the discomfort she’d felt at the back of her throat is even more pronounced. She swallows, suddenly acutely aware of it; and worse, what it implies.

Vampires and Blood.

_Christ_ , she was thirsty for fucking _blood_.

She giggles a little at the thought- it was so absurd! Darcy Lewis was now a vampire, and she was thirsty for blood. She laughs again. Fuck, but she used to be a _stripper_. She laughs even louder, uncontrollably and most definitely hysterical now. Tears form in her eyes, and she curls in on herself, clutching at her aching stomach and then suddenly she’s crying- great heaving sobs that she can’t get a hold of. She feels raw; overwrought like an exposed nerve.

The door opens and she flinches at the sound. She tries to get herself under control, but it only seems to make matters worse.

“May I sit with you, Птичка?” Natasha asks from the doorway. Darcy just cries harder, curled up tight with her forehead on her knees and her arms wrapped around her head. She tries to say something but her throat is clogged up and she can’t get the words out. Even if she could, Darcy doesn’t think she could bring herself to ask. It’s too much. She moves slightly instead, opening up space for the other woman on the bed.

Natasha sighs softly, but Darcy still catches it, and moves to her in a quiet rustle of fabric and denim. She sits beside her; close enough that she can feel the dip of the mattress, but not close enough to actually touch. Darcy is grateful that she doesn’t just presume to touch her, but to be honest she kind of wants the contact. She shifts subtly and Natasha takes the hint, arm sliding across her arm to pull her in close.

“I know you didn’t ask for this,” Natasha says after a time, when her sobbing has calmed to inelegant sniffles. There’s a tone to her words that sounds like she wants to say more, but never does.  

Darcy draws away from her and leans against the headboard. She scrubs at the tears on her face, “Did _you_?”

Natasha smiles wearily, “No. Not many of us do.”

“I guess that’s why they call it a curse.”

The other woman lifts her brows and looks away, “It’s one of the reasons.”

There’s no doubt in Darcy’s mind that there’s a great deal there that Natasha’s not talking about, but right now she’s not quite prepared to ask her, “Thank-you,” she says instead, smiling weakly at her companion, “for saving me.”

The other woman’s eyes glance down to her abdomen and back up to her mouth, “I don’t know if this is really a rescue worth thanking me for.”

Darcy studies her face. There are faint, unhappy lines around her eyes and mouth. She looks almost guilty. She smiles at her, and tentatively takes the woman’s hand- Natasha stiffens at the extra contact momentarily, before carefully and deliberately easing out the lines of her body, “If it weren’t for you, my last moments would have been spent at the hands of Casper, bleeding out on that table.”

She squeezes Natasha’s hand in gratitude, but if anything, the lines around her eyes only grow more pronounced. It’s a very subtle expression, but this close to the woman she catches it easily enough.

“You wouldn’t have died at all were it not for me.”

“I know.”

Natasha starts and stares at her. She tries to draw away but Darcy holds her fast, “I knew about the cameras- I knew what his alarm meant. I’m not stupid- I know that if you hadn’t turned up, last night would have finished like all the others, and I wouldn’t have died.

“But I’d also still be stuck there, and eventually I’d have died, like all the rest. Nameless, twisted things left out for the world to see. That won’t happen now, and _that_ is why I’m thanking you. Thank-you for saving me from that fate.”

She grins then, “I’ll thank you for the rest of it when I decide whether or not I like this whole vampire gig. In the meantime, is there something I can drink? ‘Cause I’m seriously thirsty.”

The corner of Natasha’s lip twitches, “About that.”

She grimaces, “ _Please_ don’t tell me I can only have blood now.”

The other woman does smile then, “You can eat food, but it doesn’t sustain you, and it weakens you. But there’s something else.”

Darcy groans in dread, “What?”

“The transformation isn’t complete.”

She nods slowly, staring at the cuffs of her shirt. She hopes whoever lent it to her doesn’t want it back, “Okay. So what do I have to do?”

“You need to drink human blood. Fresh blood.”

She scrutinises the redhead, “Like, from a person?”

“From a person,” Natasha answers, nodding. Darcy wrinkles her nose at the thought.

“And they’re alive?” She’s hoping the answer will be no-

“Yes.”

She takes note of the burning in her throat, “How much would I have to drink? Will I be able to stop?”

Natasha looks down at their intertwined hands, “It doesn’t take much to trigger the Turn… it depends on the person. But the challenge is stopping. Control takes years- sometimes decades- to perfect.”

Darcy bites her lip, “So it’s inevitable that I’d lose it.”

“Yes,” she runs her thumb across her knuckles, “I want you to understand; this is your choice. You can choose not to do this-”

“And if I did that? Chose not to, I mean. What happens then?”

The redhead lifts her head to look at her. In the light, Darcy realises they’re actually a deep green, “Then you will die, Птичка. Slowly, but surely, your body will break down and waste away. But we could make it quick, if that was what you wanted from us.”

There’s no judgement there, Darcy knows. And she doesn’t think she’s had anyone speak this frank with her since they hired her on at _Tricksters_. Even so, she feels an unasked-for resentment swelling up, “Then there’s not really a choice at all, is there? It’s drink, and possibly kill someone; or not drink, and die.”

Natasha bows her head, that mildly guilty look returning, “But it would still be your choice. Your life is in your own hands now. You may do with it as you please.”

Darcy stays quiet for a long while, though in her heart, the decision is already made, “Is there some way you could control me? Stop me from killing someone?”

“It’s doable”

“Then I’d like to keep a hold of my life for a little while longer, if it’s all the same to you.”

Natasha smiles at her softly. It’s a not-quite happy expression, “Then we’ll see what we can do.”


	6. Up and About

She doesn’t stay in bed for very long. A combination of wakefulness and an itchy restlessness underneath her skin has Darcy up and about not long after she’s gained a hold of her emotions. She digs around the obscenely large room in curiosity, where usually she’d be content to lie in bed for most of the day.

Not that there’s terribly much to find; the room is largely empty of anything that claims it as someone’s bedroom (even the bookshelves are sparsely populated, but for a couple of encyclopaedias), but the décor is of an understated and light-hearted style that she wouldn’t have thought a nest of vampires capable of. Though, the heavy-weight cream curtains that bathe the room in a cool darkness certainly matches her expectations.

Most of the furniture is made of some kind of light, almost white wood that she’s fairly certain isn’t pine, of a sturdy and discreetly plush make that can only be realised by close inspection and some judicious prodding. The overall theme seems to be vaguely art-deco-ish, if the shape of the bedframe is anything to go by. The bedside drawers are empty, but for a couple of pens and a small pile of yellow sticky notes, which she imagines were transplanted there from the desk by the room’s previous occupant.  

She runs her hand across the pale cream walls, admiring the large wooden desk that sits in a corner. Unlike the rest of the furniture it’s made of what might be driftwood, painted white and sanded back to emphasise the warped twist of the grain. A stained glass lamp adorns the surface, made of golds and creams and reds; it matches the one on the bedside cabinet. Two closed doors lie on either side of the desk.

The overall effect is a light and airy space that directly counteracts the lack of actual light coming from the heavily guarded windows.

“I like the décor,” she remarks finally to an amused Natasha, “it’s a little Spartan though.” She opens one of the doors, and wrinkles her nose at the empty walk-in. Not even a fur coat. Honestly.

“I thought vampires were meant to be dramatic. Where’s the pomp? Where are the bloodstains and the dark and gaudy furniture?”

Natasha raises an artful brow, “Did you want pomp and bloodstains?”

“Well, no. but I’m a little disappointed- you’re ruining all my preconceived ideas.”

“Sorry,” she says, sounding distinctly not sorry.

“Mm, don’t be. I like the pale colours. It counters the blackout curtains nicely; which I presume are there for a reason.”

“Avoid the sun,” the other woman advises, “unless you want to set yourself on fire.”

Darcy eyes the firmly secured blinds warily, “Duly noted.” She nods over at the actual door, “So, am I allowed out? What’s the deal here; can I leave? Or am I your prisoner now.”

Natasha blanches- a subtle movement between her neck and chin, “Not out prisoner, Птичка. Never our prisoner.”

“Even if I went on a killing spree?”

The redhead is silent for a long moment, eyes intent, “We don’t take prisoners.”

Darcy takes that as the warning it is, “But I could leave?”

“Yes. You could leave… Do you want to, Darcy?”

Darcy thinks about it- she really does. A month ago she probably would have. Then again, a month ago she had a life. Sure, it was the life of a stripper- not exactly the most highbrow of jobs, and certainly not what she’d expected of herself straight out of college- but the pay was good, the girls were nice and she’d found an almost vindictive pleasure in flaunting herself over the masses of men, untouchable and unknowable.

But now?

God only knew what had happened to her place, and her job would be well and truly lost. Boston was always supposed to have been a temporary arrangement, whilst she’d gotten her shit together, but then the money had run dry and she’d been forced to settle.

There isn’t much to lose by staying here just a little while.

“Am I allowed?”

Natasha smiles, resting her elbows on her knees, “You’re welcome to stay as long as you want.”

“What, am I part of the family now?”

Natasha inclines her head. Darcy looks away, back at the pretty desk lamp. Inwardly, she fights her minor freakout. A lot of this feels very weird for her; she’s barely known Natasha for longer than half a day, and most of that was spent being dead or in a paralytic haze.

“Doesn’t take much,” she tries to joke, “a bite and that’s it- I’m family. Do I start calling you sis? … Mom?”

Natasha gives her such a look of horror she can’t help but laugh. The scowl grows more pronounced, “You’ll get on plenty well with Stark,” Darcy catches her muttering under her breath. She wonders if that’s the enhanced senses (provided enhanced senses were even part of the gig) kicking in, or if Natasha was just saying it loud enough to let her hear it.

“Technically, there’s no biting involved,” the redhead says, louder, “all there needs to be is the consumption of my blood before you die.”

“Ew.”

“It could be worse.”

Darcy agrees. They fall silent. Natasha glance at the door.

“Did you want to go out?”

Darcy sags in relief, “Oh my God. Yes.”

Natasha is up and off the bed in an instant, waiting beside the door before Darcy can even register the movement. She extends a hand, casual and inviting and Darcy crosses the room to take it. Her skin feels… room temperature; soft and dry. She’d half expected her to be cold as ice (dumb to think now, considering the number of times the woman has touched her).

Was that how Darcy felt now? Room temperature, like a piece of meat left out for too long?

Natasha smiles at her and pushes on the handle. They slip out into a brightly lit corridor. There are several doors on each side- most are open, and the ambient light streams through them to illuminate the darker wooden panelling of the hall.

Darcy raises a brow, taking in the uncovered, curved shapes of the windows and the sheltered balconies beyond, “I thought you said sunlight would burn?”

Natasha hums, smiling at her still, “It does. But all our windows are tempered glass. It filters out the UV rays that burn us.”

“So… what about my room?”

“Sensory deprivation. We didn’t want you to come-to feeling overwhelmed.”

Darcy puffs out her cheeks. The skin around her eyes feel tight and achy. Their intentions didn’t exactly do much good, but she couldn’t fault them for trying. She takes in the view beyond the tempered glass; a wide expanse of manicured lawn- neon green- that ends abruptly in front of a dark grey rock wall and a stretch of yellow sand and calm ocean beyond it.

That is… not what she had expected.

“Where _are_ we?”

“Sands Point. Long Island.”

She turns to start at Natasha sharply, “Well…” she remarks eloquently.

Natasha laughs softly through her nose, and pulls her on. A number of the rooms show signs of occupancy, with rumpled bed-covers, half open drawers; even one room with a pair of men’s leather shoes haphazardly discarded on the floor. It’s all remarkably human, “So how many people live here, exactly?”

“Officially, about eleven of us. Sometimes more.”

“ _Eleven_!”

“It’s a big place.”

“… I’m getting that”

“But permanently, there’s only nine of us.”

“Nine,” she copies in disbelief, “that's a lot of people. How big exactly is this place?”

“Big enough.”

Darcy frowns, “Then where is everyone?” She knew there were plenty of rooms that had the look of occupancy upon them, but the fact remained that they were still empty.

“Tony, Bruce and Pepper are…” Natasha trails off, eyes glancing over to Darcy, “well. They’re on clean-up. The farm needed to be swept clean before we notify the authorities. Nothing about the place can be tied back to us, and I was rather… messy. Clint is out; searching for a meal for you.”

Darcy stops walking. Natasha’s reaction is immediate, and she steps and turns around to face her.

“A meal,” Darcy echoes, that familiar mix of distaste and fear churning in her gut.

“Normally we drink a mix of animal blood and blood packs; donated blood from Thralls. But for you, he needs a living human.” Darcy doesn’t know what a Thrall is, but she can certainly guess from the context. She stores the word away for future reference, “They’re likely to be a criminal. Someone unlikely to be missed if something goes wrong.”

She nods slowly, “Is that… is that a normal tactic?”

“It depends on the vampire; and the clan. Those who feed on live blood often target those whose deaths are unlikely to create a problem for them. If they’re smart about it.” She smiles wryly, “Then again, not many Children are. Bloodlust is a real and inescapable problem, Darcy.  Many Children find that when they start, it is near impossible to stop.”

Darcy swallows nervously at Natasha’s transparent delivery of the facts, “Children?”

“Of the night. It’s the more... politically correct term for Vampires, I suppose you would say.” She glances away and back again, “Is that okay?”

It takes a moment to understand what the question is in reference to, but when it is, she nods.

Natasha smiles at her. It’s beautiful; wide and free, “I’m glad.” She takes a hold of her hand, gently tugging on it to move her along, “Come; there are people I’d like you to meet.”

Darcy lets Natasha lead her- guiding her through what is certainly the largest house she’s ever been in- and certainly the wealthiest. It’s not gaudy, or over-the-top, but there is a distinct sophistication to the furnishings and space that speaks of old money and new world aesthetics (despite the obvious presence of more than a few antiques). By the time they reach the library/study, Darcy is feeling drained and just a little intimidated. She can’t quite shake the feeling that she’ll dirty or break something just by looking at it.

The library is verifiably huge for a private collection- at least twice as large as her whole apartment- and filled to the absolute brim with books of various ages and genres. Nothing is labelled per se, but even from the doorway she can see one shelf lined with green leather encyclopaedias, some of the spines cracked and slightly faded, directly opposite an entire shelf filled with what she’s one hundred percent certain are Harlequin novels.

She grins at those.

Beneath the span of an enormous curved window- the top half of which features a gloriously detailed stained-glass sun (which come to think of it, may well be in bad taste) that casts the room in a golden hue- sit two men on a white leather lounge. One looked to have been reading a newspaper before they’d arrived- the other is wiggling a pen between his fingers, a dog-eared book sitting discarded in his lap. They smile at Natasha and Darcy as they enter, and she takes in their faintly hollowed cheeks, shared blue eyes and the bird-like thinness of the blonde man. They are both unfailingly attractive.

“Darcy,” Natasha says warmly, still holding onto her hand, “This is Steve and Bucky.”

Darcy recognises one of their names, “You’re the ones that picked us up?”

“Yeah,” the blonde one- not-Bucky judging by his voice, though they obviously share the same softened Brooklyn accent- replies, “it’s pretty rough, what happened back there.”

Beside Steve, Bucky closes his eyes for a long moment.

Darcy’s hands stray to her scarred arms, hidden behind the white cotton and she is acutely aware of her state of dress. “Yeah,” she urges herself to say, “but I hear he’s dead now.”

“Christ Steve,” Bucky mutters darkly and Steve makes a face and looks away, “anyone would’a thought you were emotionally constipated. Forgive the idiot, Doll,” he smiles at her encouragingly, all suave and old-world charm, “He’s shit at talking to pretty dames.”

She smiles nervously, “I can see that.”

Bucky lets out a bark of startled laughter. Beside her, Natasha snorts softly.

“Darcy’s chosen to stay with us for the time being,” she states matter-o-factly, leading both of them to sit at the couch facing opposite the men. The pair smile at her, blue eyes crinkling at the corners in a way that she can’t help but return. Darcy is struck with the realisation that these two are most likely a couple.

“Welcome to the second chancers, Darcy Lewis,” Steve says, apparently over his mild embarrassment. Darcy wonders when any of them had had the chance to learn her last name.

“Thanks.”

Bucky leans forward, “So tell us about yourself, Darcy. Stevie and I have been arguing over your spirit animal; Steve reckons you look like an otter lover, but me, I reckon you’re more of a crow girl to me.”

She laughs. This is not how she would have imagined meetings like this would go, but as ice-breakers go it’s pretty good, “I’m more of an octopus person, actually.”

Steve snorts, but Bucky nods seriously, “Cephalopods; good choice. Give ‘em a few billion years and they’ll be the humans of the sea.”

“That, and they’re ridiculously adorable.”

“You make a compelling argument.”

“But what else; did you study, Darcy?” Steve prompts Darcy. By this point, Darcy is firmly reminded of the networking nights at college, but with less alcohol and men staring at her breasts. Granted, she does catch their eyes every now and then lingering on her neck or the backs of her hands- the only places where her scars are visible.

She smiles and nods, “Political science,” she says, forcing herself to push through the awkwardness, “but I stared with history. I graduated mid last year.”

“Were you working?”

She shakes her head, “Turns out, the job market for inexperienced post-grads is shit. Who’d have thought.”

Steve gives her a wry smile, “I could never find work, when I was…” he motions at his skinny frame sheepishly, “well, human.”

“When was that, exactly?” a thought occurs to her and she flinches, “Or is that like, taboo? Should I not be asking people how old they are?”

“It’s fine, Птичка.” Natasha replies, amused.

“Steve and I were born in the late 1910s,” Bucky explains, “Natalia a little later.”

Darcy doesn’t miss the faint eastern European accent that leaks into Natasha’s name. Curious.

“It must have been interesting, living through the leaps of technology.”

“Eh. The sexual revolution was… enlightening. But,” Bucky shrugs and nods at Steve, “it’s the medical breakthroughs that impress me. This guy used to always be sick with somethin’ or other. Now, mosta his problems coulda been solved with a pill.”

“So you two knew each other? Before?”

“Since we were wee babbies,” Steve says in a terrible imitation of a Scottish accent.

“Saved his sorry hide when we were kids. Been doin’ the same ever since.”

“Tch-” Steve rolls his eyes and shoves at him, “goes both ways since the Turn bud.”

Bucky’s grin grows wider, “He doesn’t look it, love, but Steve here’s a scrappy little shit,” he whispers to her conspiratorially. She laughs as Steve visibly kicks his ankle.

“Something tells me you’re not much better.”

“No, really! When I was a kid, I was an angel- butter wouldn’t melt in me mouth. Then along comes Steve and I off the rails! Stay here long enough doll and he’ll rub off on you too. Him and Stark.”

“We’re trying to postpone a meet-up with Stark for as long as possible,” Natasha drawls, eyes pinned on Darcy (if Darcy’s honest with herself, the redhead’s attention hasn’t strayed from her since they first ‘met’. She’s trying hard not to be concerned by how unconcerned she is about it), “We have enough disasters with just him and Bruce.”

Darcy raises a brow, “Oh? Pray, tell me more.” Natasha looks positively apprehensive, but Bucky and Steve share a wicked look.

“Tony Stark is our benevolent overlord, mad scientist and benefactor,” Steve explains.

Darcy chokes on nothing, “I’m sorry; my ears must be mistaken, because I’m almost certain you just said Tony Stark lives here.”

Bucky rolls his eyes, but Steve just nods, face deadly serious.

“ _The_ Tony Stark?”

“ _The_ Tony Stark.”

Darcy shakes her head, leaning back into the sofa. Tony Stark is the reclusive owner of Stark Industries, known for its domination of the technology and clean energy industries. She’d written a paper on him. No _way_ was he a vampire, “You must be shitting me.”

The three of them shake their heads in the negative. Darcy lets out a heavy breath, “That is… that’s insane! I mean- _how?_ SI has been around for what? Forty, fifty years by now! How has no one worked it out?”

Steve shrugs, “A few have, over the years. He turned a few- Pepper and Rhodey. You’ll like Pepper, she started out as his PA; she’s sharp as anything. The rest… well, they’re not called Thralls for nothing.”

Darcy mouths a silent ‘wow’, “That is- that is impressive, really and truly.”

“Not what you expected, right?”

“I didn’t know what to expect. It’s nice to know we can still be successful.”

“Give or take a few ‘career changing’ accidents every couple of decades, yeah.”

 _Jesus Christ_ , what had she gotten herself into?

“Any other semi-famous slash obscenely rich people I should know about?”

“Celine Dion.”

She gapes at Bucky, “Seriously?”

“No.”

She glares at him, “Shame. She has the cheekbones for it.”

“Steve was a fairly well known artist in the early fifties,” Natasha states, something akin to pride in her voice. Steve looks away, embarrassed again. Darcy is sure if he was human he’d be blushing.

She tilts her head in interest at the other woman, “Yeah?”

“Oh yeah-” Bucky replies, “We were both gone by then, but some art dealer got a hold of some of his works and he took off. The art scene turned him into a bit of a martyr, dyin’ before his career could take off.”

Darcy is only momentarily taken aback by how easily Bucky speaks of his partner’s ‘death’. Is that just a vampire thing? Or a Bucky thing?

“There’s a few of his ‘posthumous’ works around the house,” Natasha states.

Darcy raises a brow, “Yeah? Can you show me? Natasha hasn’t shown me around the place proper yet. Be nice to get a tour.”

The couple smirk, “No grand tour, Natashenka? What kind of hostess are you?”

“A terrible one. You do better inductions than I.”

“This is true,” Bucky concedes. He leans forward, smiling, “I know all about this place, Darce.”

Natasha cocks her head, turned towards some unknown source. When she turns back to Darcy, her face has been carefully schooled to show no emotion, “It will have to wait. Clint is back.”

Darcy flinches.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Thralls here are humans that have fallen under a vampire's control. Leaning towards the Vampire Diaries ability to compel humans not under the influence of vervain. Good ol' mind control.


	7. Drink Up

She can smell the human almost as soon as Clint guides the onto the property. 

Steve and Bucky must too; she can see their awareness in the minute stiffening of James’ shoulders, and the momentary twitch of Steve’s hand. Their self-control is remarkably advanced; all of them are somewhere in their seventh decade- relatively young for a vampire. Most of their kin are still struggling to control themselves around humans, but Natalia and Bucky were born into a world where control was tantamount to survival, and self-restraint was burnt into them as surely as a brand. Steve has always had it harder- having never lived through the conditions his counterparts had found themselves in- but even he shows a control that never ceases to amaze Natalia.

Flinch notwithstanding, Natalia doesn’t miss the way Darcy stiffens at her side when she announces Clint’s arrival. Her eyes flick over to her with nothing short of fear in her eyes. She watches her throat swell and contract as she swallows. Natalia wants to sooth her; wants to croon into her soft, dark hair and stroke her uneven skin.

It’s a strange and unfamiliar sensation, this fierce protectiveness. She hadn’t expected it, even with the stories from Bucky. But his relationship with Steve had always been there; changing him only intensified that for the both of them. Natalia and Darcy had always been strangers; were still strangers, really. She wonders, only for a moment, if this was how her sire had felt about the children of the Red Room…

Perhaps not.

She smiles at the young woman, and watches the fear on her face harden into resolve. The girl lets out a long and draw-out sigh.

“Okay,” she says, scrunching her hands up in the tracksuit material of her pants, “Okay. Let’s do this.”

She smiles at her Changeling and stands. The others mirror her and she leads them to the door. Clint is waiting outside; he looks unperturbed by the significance of his task. Natalia is far from surprised- he’d been the same with Kate.

“Nat,” he greets her with a kiss to her cheek, “One human, as requested.” He nods behind him and down the hall, “I left him in the laundry,” he extends a hand to Darcy, “I’m Clint.”

“Darcy.”

Natalia doesn’t miss the slight waver in her voice and the tremor in her hand just before she shakes. She may need to do something about that- not that it’s any wonder. It’s a marvel that she let anyone touch her at all.

The four of them follow Clint through to the laundry. Steve and Bucky pointing out bits and pieces and ribbing each other good naturedly in an attempt to lighten the mood, but Darcy is visibly nervous. Natalia can almost feel the tension coiling in the Changeling like a visceral feeling in her gut. When she finally smells the human she stops dead in her tracks, momentarily frozen.

“Птичка,” she murmurs. Darcy turns to stare at her with wide, dilated eyes.

“I can _smell_ him!” she rasps, “Oh God, I can _smell him!_ ” she looks horrified by the thought, but Natalia can smell the increased production of saliva in reaction. She glances forwards and back to her, eyes pleading, “I’m so _thirsty_.”

“I know, Птичка. Not for much longer, I swear.”

“I believe you,” Darcy breathes, and lets Natalia and Steve lead her on with hands gently cupping her elbows.

Even so, she hesitates again at the doorway of the laundry. Her breathing accelerates for a moment- a bad idea, in Natalia’s books, and Darcy must realise because not a moment later, it seems to stop entirely. Beneath her hand, she is shaking.

“I don’t-” she starts, then visibly startles, her hands flying up to her mouth, “Oh God, what the _hell_?” she exclaims, voice slightly garbled.

Bucky lets out a soft laugh, “Those’d be your teeth comin’ in, doll.”

Darcy turns back to Natalia, “Seriously?”

She smiles at the younger woman, “Did you think you’d just use your regular teeth?”

She shakes her head, “No!” she still hasn’t removed her hands, “Yes- I don’t know! Oh my God, this is so _weird_!”

She can’t stop smiling; Natalia can’t remember her own teeth coming in- to see it is a novelty, “May I see?”

Darcy winces, “ _Ow_ \- yeah, okay.”

She moves closer, softly tugging her hands away and Darcy opens her mouth for her to inspect. There, emerging from the gums behind her canines are the four elongated and serrated teeth of a Changeling. Long and sharp, but with the strange jagged edges on the outer line, they’re vaguely reminiscent of something between a viper and a shark. She smiles in approval, “They look healthy.”

“I’m gonna bite my tongue all the fucking time!” she looks mildly horrified at the thought, and Natalia has to work very hard not to laugh at the heavy lisp she now has.

“You won’t,” she promises, “they’re retractable.” To demonstrate, she opens her mouth wide, and her second row of teeth slide out, visible behind her old human ones. Her Changeling stares at them with a mix of revulsion and fascination.

“They’re like shark teeth,” she murmurs, voice thick and clumsy, “you have more though!”

“Once you Turn, the others will emerge too.”

“And they’ll retract right? Like yours?”

She nods at her mouth, “They already have.”

Darcy touches her mouth again, thumb sliding up to touch at the gums behind her teeth. She visibly relaxes, “Thank God- I don’t think I could deal with two sets of teeth all of the time.”

“I don’t think any of us could. We’d never be able to speak properly again,” Steve says. Bucky snickers.

“For some of us, that might not be a bad thing.”

“Mm,” Natalia replies. The lighter mood doesn’t last for long. All too soon Darcy is wrapped up in smell of human and _food_ and is hesitating at the threshold of the closed laundry all over again.

“Will it-” she breaks off. Swallows, “will it hurt them?”

“Only a little,” Steve reassures her, “But we can make them forget easily enough. Vampires have the ability of compulsion- we can command thralls to do almost anything.”

“Including making them forget?”

“Including making them forget.”

Darcy sighs heavily and looks down at her covered arms. Natalia knows what she must be thinking about- the scars musts be horrifying for her. To think that they would be with her for the rest of eternity, a constant reminder of what she’d been through. Even for Natalia, the scars she had earned that rest upon her skin were sometimes too much to bear; there were days where she could barely stand to look at herself.

“Could you make _me_ forget?”

Even with all her understanding, something inside Natalia breaks at the quietly spoken query. She can’t bring herself to answer. In her peripheral, Steve wears the familiar mask of burning sympathy and fierce, righteous rage.

Bucky takes pity on the two of them, “No, Darcy. Compulsion doesn’t work on kin. I’m sorry.”

Darcy bites her lip and stares down at the ground. Natalia is certain that if she were human, her face would be bright red, “Right; dumb question sorry. Forget I asked.”

“It’s okay to want to forget, Darcy,” Steve tells her softly, before Natalia can bring herself to say anything at all. The woman’s head twitches, like a flinch contained from the neck upwards.

“Do you? Does it all fade, eventually?”

“Sometimes. For some of us,” Bucky answers, sharing a look with Clint, “But most times those are the ones that forget they were ever even human at all. They forget that they were anything other than a monster.”

“Oh. I guess they’re the ones you have to put down.”

“Sometimes, yeah.”

“You don’t have to do this,” Natalia finally says, and she could kick herself for how empty the reassurance is.

“I know,” Darcy’s voice is barely above a whisper. She clears her throat, “But I refuse to die.”

“Then we’d best open that door,” Bucky asserts in a voice that mimics nonchalance perfectly to all but those that know him well. Clint snorts at the declaration but opens it anyway as Darcy steels herself. Natalia watches her bite her bottom lip hard enough to almost draw blood.

Inside, a man sits calmly on a wooden chair. He stares at them with the familiar unblinking gaze of a thrall. His face and neck are bruised from the chokehold Natalia is certain Clint held him in until he went under.

“He was going to rape a woman,” her friend says coldly, “slipped something into her drink- was going to take her home, _weren’t you, buddy?_ ”

“Yes sir,” he says, voice faraway and almost dreamy, “she was showing so much skin… I knew she wouldn’t mind.”

Darcy sucks in a sharp breath. Her gaze, when Natalia turns back to her, is angry.

“I bet you thought she was asking for it, huh?” she snarls.

The man tilts his head slowly and blinks once, “Yes,” he says simply, as though it were a universal truth.

She bares her teeth at him, secondary fangs emerging in response to the smell of food, “On second thought, maybe this won’t be as hard as I thought,” she snarls. The man sits still, unaffected by her righteous anger.

“That’s the spirit!” Clint cheers. He turns back to his thrall, “Stand up,” he orders and the man obeys without question, “extend you right arm, palm facing upwards.” The thrall complies, staring straight ahead, almost unseeing. Clint was laying the compulsion on thick.

Darcy takes a step forwards, staring at the man as if she were transfixed. Natalia is reminded of her time as a freshly Turned, when the pull of blood was like the melody of a song she could barely stop herself from dancing to. She takes in the dilated pupils, the half open mouth that tastes the air and the way she seems frozen halfway through her movement- all signs of her barely toeing the edge between lucid and possessed.

She nods to Steve and Bucky, and they draw in close behind her, ready to immobilise her when the moment comes. Natalia takes a hold of the thrall’s forearm and pushes it towards Darcy, “Bite here,” she orders, “but try not to go too deep.”

Darcy’s eyes flick up to her for one moment, but doesn’t react further than that. Natalia is impressed- an invitation like that would have had a changeling from the Red Room launching forwards. Only a few that she had encountered ever expressed reservations. Those were the ones the Room kept alive, she remembers that much.

“ _Darcy_ ,” she layers her voice with strength and steel, “you _must_.”

And like that, Darcy moves forwards, mouth opening wider and closing on the thrall’s arm. The man makes a soft noise of discomfort as her teeth sink into his flesh but otherwise doesn’t move. The scent of fresh blood fills the air but Natalia is too entranced by the sight of her changeling doing exactly what she was made to do. The reddened lips against tanned skin; the crimson liquid that escape the crease of her mouth; the soft sound she utters when the blood first touches the back of her throat; Ра́ди Бо́га, even the sudden feral air that seems to envelop her as instinct takes over. The woman triggers something raw and visceral inside of her, and Natalia is so surprised by the sensation that she almost forgets to stop her.

“Птичка,” she says, but Darcy ignores her; hands rise to grip at the man’s arm, pressing it closer to her.

Bucky and Steve react, arms sneaking up and around her to grasp her jaw and restrain her arms. She lets out a distressed sound in the back of her throat, but instinct quickly makes her angry. She struggles. Steve works his thumb and middle finger around her jaw and pries it open the moment she opens her mouth to snarl at them. Natalia pulls the thrall out of her grip and she lunges at him, but Clint has already spirited him away. The door to the laundry slams shut as she screams in rage.

“ _No!_ ” Darcy screeches; lunges for the exit, but the men hold her fast, “No, I _need_ him! _Give him back!_ ”

“No, Darcy,” she manoeuvers herself in front of her. Darcy looks straight through her, focussed on the door and the blood she can smell on the other side of it, “That was all you needed.”

“ _No it wasn’t!_ ” she shrieks, frantic. She struggles in the iron grasp of Steve and Bucky. She screams- raw and enraged and right in her face- when she finds she can’t even move.

Natalia snarls, surging forwards to grip at her hair, tugging her head backwards with a force just this side of cruel, “You will _stop_ this. _Now._ ”

Like a switch being thrown, the frenzy stops. Darcy turns loose and pliant in their hold, and the wildness in her eyes fades. She shudders once- twice- then tilts her head back further, baring her neck for Natalia. She catches the briefest glimpse of fear on her face.

She blinks at the submission. Honestly, she had never thought the woman would allow herself to be lorded over so. Natalia was aware the moment she moved that enforcing her dominance was out of line, but it was that or allow Darcy to hurt herself.

“It’s okay, Птичка,” she distantly hears herself say, “It’s fine; it happens to all of us.” She lets go of her hair, righting her head and stroking her cheeks. She watches as the clarity returns, to be replaced by a dull kind of horror.

“That just… that just happened, right?”

She nods slowly. Darcy lets out a shuddering sigh and sags forward. For the briefest of moments she looks defeated- tired- before she flinches and stiffens, realising who exactly is holding her up.

“Let her go,” she orders her boys before they induce a panic attack. Darcy makes another soft noise of distress when they release her, but stumbles into Natalia’s arms all the same. Her arms wrap around her waist, pulling tight, and Natalia tucks her head into the crook of her neck, not minding the traces of blood inevitably ruining her shirt. The pattern of her breathing promises tears.

“Leave us,” she murmurs, and Bucky and Steve comply without a word, taking the door that leads outside.

In the stillness of the empty room, she lowers Darcy onto the floor and croons encouragements and comforts to her in every language she knows as the younger woman sobs. She tries very hard not to think about how much she enjoys this newfound role of support. Natalia, the woman with sharp edges and sharper blades, bred for murder and bloodshed, and now comforting a woman a quarter her age as though it were as easy as breathing.

Perhaps it was.

Perhaps it was, and she had never tried.

(What did that say about her?)

“I don’t _ever_ want to do that again!” Darcy gasps after a time. Over her head, Natalia hums.

“Then you won’t. There are other ways to feed.”

“Good,” Darcy murmurs, gripping her tight before loosening and pulling away. The loss of her embrace feels almost like a punch in the gut; like an absence she never knew she had. It is entirely unreasonable.

Darcy blinks at her slowly, her movements sluggish as she wipes away the now dried residue of blood on her lower chin. She seems too tired to even acknowledge what it is.

“How do you feel?” she asks warily. Darcy shakes her head, as though trying to dispel the lethargy. She fails.

“Tired,” she tilts forward drunkenly, “is it meant to feel like this?”

Natalia draws back a strand of hair from where it clings to her face, “For a time, yes. Your body is going to start to shut down for a while. While the Turn completes itself.”

“Oh, that’s good,” Darcy slumps forward and she catches her before she can hurt herself- she’s almost forgotten how quick it happens. She tries not to worry about how slurred the brunette’s speech is becoming, “I was worried something was going wrong.”

The woman is out before Natalia can even muster a reply.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not sure if this doesn't make sense, or if I'm just really tired.
> 
> Ра́ди Бо́га! = for God’s sake!  
> Probably. I don't know, given that I don't speak Russian...


	8. Awake, for the Last Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. Not dead. Momentarily distracted by life and stuff and things. Elsewise... been working on other stories. Don't know when I'll next post a chapter; hopefully soon, but I have a large piece of assessment due in the next couple of weeks. So... we'll see.

Darcy comes to feeling warm and jittery.

Her nerves feel as though they’ve been set alight, but lacks the heat and burning she thought she’d associate with it. Her skin feels tight and oversensitive, the fabric of her clothes touching and wrapping around her in a way that makes her uncomfortable, and the darkened room she’s been placed in feels overwhelmingly _loud_. Or perhaps it’s the space outside her room- she can hear the sounds of people- speaking, breathing, moving; it all fills her ears with noise that she can’t escape.

And, fuck, but the _smell_. It’s like someone is trying to shove a perfumery forcefully up her nose and she can hardly stand to breathe. The room alone smells like dirt and flowers, with hint of salt and a strange acrid scent that she can only guess is exhaust fumes.

_Christ_ , if this is what it was like to be a fucking vampire, she didn’t want to open her eyes.

Natasha is sitting in the room with her. She can smell her- an overwhelming scent of something dark- like bitter cocoa and liquorice and cloves, but twisted and morphed into something not-quite. Darcy likes it, either way.

“What time is it?” she whispers. The words feel like a shout and she winces again.

“Ten o’clock. PM,” Natasha replies. Her words are as soft as Darcy’s had been, like she knows about the increased sensitivity.

_Of course she does. Idiot._

“These will help.”

Something small and spongey is placed in her left hand, Natasha’s fingers curling around her digits gently. A touch that’s barely even there, “What are they?” Darcy still can’t bring herself to open her eyes yet.

“Earplugs. They’ll muffle the sounds until you grow accustomed to everything.”

Darcy blindly puts them carefully in her ears and sighs in relief as the noise of the world reduces back to normal levels. Or close enough to.

“Better?”

“Yes. Thank-you.”

“You can open your eyes, if you want. It’s not that bad.”

Darcy complies, opening them slowly to take in the darkened room. She bites her lip. Turns to look at Natasha, who looks far clearer than she should for a room unlit at ten at night.

“Is that it? It’s done? I’m a vampire for reals now?”

“Yes.”

Darcy grimaces, “My skin feels like it’s about to rub itself raw.”

The corners of her mouth twitch sympathetically, “It won’t. All of it will pass, in time. It takes a little while for your body to grow used to its new sensitivity.”

Darcy stares down at her still-scarred skin, and wonders if she means that for everything. They’re paler now- blending into the fabric of her skin far better than the angry purple did. They’re still plenty visible though- especially to her. She pulls at the sleeves of her shirt, noting the scent on Natasha and orange detergent on the crisp blue cotton. She must have changed her again. Darcy is grateful- she’s not sure she could have handled the scent of blood and _human_ resting on her skin.

The restless feeling beneath her flesh grows stronger. She rolls over, making to get off the bed, “I need-” she stands and trails off. She’s not even sure what she needs. What she _really_ needs. Did she used to feel like this? So uncertain? Surely she’d been more put together than this. _Before_.

“I need to get outside.”

_God_ , but she wants to feel the sun on her face again.

Natasha just nods and leaves her bedside vigil. She walks over to the curtained half of her room and drags them apart, revealing a pair of curved French doors. Beyond is a small balcony and the golden lights of the city across the channel. She breathes out heavily at the sight, suddenly bathed in an unexpected kind of grief that closes her throat and clutches her chest in a vice. She finds herself at the doors before she even realises she’s moving.

She blinks at the speed- it leaves her taken aback. Another thing to get used to.

Natasha gives her an almost smile and moves silently into her space, touching her cheek with a soft hand. She shivers at the contact; it feels too hard and too soft all at once. Her blue-green eyes are sympathetic; Darcy closes her own to escape them. Natasha lets out a soft breath, “Is this what you want?”

Darcy nods her head mutely. The hand on her cheek leaves and she hears dry skin on metal and the grinding shift of metal gears. The wave of cool, fresh air that runs into the room is like a slap in the face and her eyes open in shock. She can taste the faint scent of human, of the ocean and pollution and just… the city. The combination makes her feel light-headed, almost nauseous and she breaks past Natasha to get closer.

_I’ll never blink again_ , she thinks, _I’ll never close my eyes for anything now._

She jumps off the balcony.

If Darcy was expecting to have gained some fancy new agility or previously unknown parkour skills, she is sorely mistaken. She lands on the garden below with a heavy _thump_ and a surprised yelp. Not going to try that again in a hurry. The short hedge that broke her fall is unlikely to recover.

She laughs either way; nothing hurts, and the breath that’s knocked out of her is nothing more than an inconvenience. She scrambles to her feet and runs off, even as Natasha lands just next to where she’d thrown herself. The older woman calls out after her, but Darcy ignores the sound.

She’s out; she’s _free_. She’s certain she’s never going to let herself into a closed room again.

The sand gives beneath her bare feet- a soft crunch beneath each footstep and she laughs at the uncomfortably strong sensation of thousands of tiny grains touching her skin, working their way up between her toes. Remembers the last time she’d been to a beach- twelve years old with a parent holding onto each hand and tight smiles on their faces, playing pretend for one last summer.

She cries when the water surges towards her, caresses her legs like an old and familiar lover. It’s cold but she barely feels it as she wades through, ruining her borrowed clothes but hardly caring. Natasha won’t grudge her for it.

She stops when the water reaches chest height, sobbing at the glittering skyline and wishing it were empty but glad that it’s not. Her clothes are sodden and heavy and in the water it’s just _too much_. She tears off the shirt, the buttons popping off without protest and lets the current drag it from her. The sweatpants come off not long after, though they tangle on her legs before she manages.

She stands in the water, naked and scarred. Tilts her head back and stares at the night sky, and searches for clarity. A peace in her heart. In her _soul_.

All she finds is a starless sky and a memory of skinny dipping in the college pool on a dare.

She screams up at the sickly yellow-black void, suddenly furious.

_Why_ , she screams. _Why_ , she sobs. She slaps at the salt water, as though her anger could rend the world in two. She cries because she’s angry. She’s angry because she’s lost. So terribly, _terribly_ lost. There’s no _point_ to it. What is, _is_. She’s not going to escape it now unless she dies.

She grabs at her hair and curls in on herself, sobbing harder. The water laps at her throat and touches her nose. The smell of it surrounds her, so absolute she almost doesn’t notice Natasha standing beside her. A silent presence that offers comfort and security without a word being said.

Darcy ignores her in favour of screaming and crying and smashing at the water until she can feel human again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank-you to everyone who's dropped a comment over the last few months! I'm glad you've all been enjoying this. This chapter is really the last of the super angst, and soon the actual romance will start emerging! Yayyy. 
> 
> For those who're interested, come check me out on tumblr or instagram (cinnaatheart for both)! There's some writing on there, personal art projects and other stuff and things!


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